


My Price for Peace

by Kirsten



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten/pseuds/Kirsten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will fight Saxons and Uhtred will fight Danes, because that is the world we live in and it is our way. But it is not all that we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Price for Peace

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't watched the last three episodes, so this is undoubtedly AU after 1x5. I've not yet read the books.

It is three full seasons and one half before I see Uhtred again. A winter passes, which we spend in London, and then a spring, and then a summer, and then half the autumn. The leaves have crisped red and the Saxons have secured a good harvest. It is fruitful raiding, but now when we are done I often think of our father, who came to farm and not to raid.

Before the autumn, at the end of summer, our camp receives a messenger. The man is harried and streaked with blood, and his horse is foamed white. My friend Erik, who is also my second, offers him water and food. He tears into the bread with his teeth.

"Guthrum is dead," he announces.

We are rocked. Guthrum was a strong man, more cautious even than Ubba. Ubba would throw a man's life away for his gods; for Guthrum, a warrior's lost life was a sacrifice.

I must know. "How?"

"A great battle," says the messenger. "He fell to the Saxon traitor, Uhtred."

This is something I am tired of hearing. I tell him and those around us: "My brother is no traitor." 

I am smiling, for I am free to say it, at last.

-

Guthrum's men will follow me now. I know it, for I am Ragnar Ragnarsson and Earl Ragnar the Fearless was my father. Guthrum would not waste their lives; nor would I. For a Dane this is a powerful thing.

A long time ago, Ravn and I sat beside the fire and he told me of his life before blindness. He described a life of colours, sky blue and grass green and blood red, a young man in love with the world and everything in it.

"It is easy for a man to live fearlessly when he sees so clearly," he said, "but sometimes that is just a different kind of blindness."

I remember his words now while I think about what I must do. My path seems clear.

But am I blinded?

-

The early morning sky is pale silver and the air faintly crisp when I gather my men and tell them: "We will ride to Winchester."

There is no cheering. They know my mission. Brida's smile is bright, for she knows that we will soon be reunited with our wayward brother. 

A few moments later a body is dropped at my feet. It is Kjartan's spy, with his throat cut. I know not who killed him, and I care less.

-

We take our own path to Winchester instead of following the road, but we do not hide our approach. Now it is Saxon spies who seek our fires in the night. They watch us from the shadows. I feel their stares.

"What should we do?" Brida asks.

"Nothing," I say. "Let them look."

It is nine days before we arrive and I give the order to make camp in the lowland two miles from the city. There is a forest at our backs curving around to the west, so I do not leave my men entirely at a disadvantage – but the high ground in front of us is a deliberate choice.

I give Erik his orders. "I will make the final approach. If I do not return by nightfall, go north to Eoferwic."

"And after?"

"Do as you wish," I say to him. His eyes are gleaming; he is my friend, but he knows that the Danes in England will be his if I do not return.

-

On my way out of the camp, Brida grabs me by my belt.

"Come back," she orders.

"I will," I promise.

Our other goodbyes are not your business.

-

My approach to the city is watched, but not by anxious spies in the woodland. I see armoured men standing atop great gates; it would be a foolish Dane who made an attempt on this fortress. Ubba would have tried, if the gods had decreed it. Guthrum would have contemplated victory by another means – a battle staged elsewhere, leaving the city free for the taking.

Another thing Ravn told me long ago: "It is true, young Ragnar, that wealth must be taken, but – and you may not believe this – you do not always need a sword to do it."

-

The gates remain closed. They are the height of three Earl Ragnars, perhaps four – I smile to picture it, Earl Ragnars end to end against these walls.

"I would speak with your king Alfred," I call to the sentries staring down at me, and the memories of my father put good humour into my voice.

Now that I am close, I see many more faces – a child here, other warriors there. Over the years I have approached many fortresses, but rarely without my sword at hand. This time it is sheathed at my back and my hands remain in sight, keeping my horse steady. No doubt I am a nightmare to these farmers; I wonder if the gates will open.

They do, after a time. They reveal a path through the city lined with men and blades. Farmers they may be, but reaping hooks can kill just as well as swords.

I make my way. My horse is good and sturdy, and of a steady temperament – a blessing in times like these. He does not startle as we walk through the crowds. They are well-fed, these people. I cannot help but notice the market stalls and the scent of roasting meat in the air. It is ripe for feasting. My belly rumbles.

But there is little laughter here, and I think it is not just the near presence of my men. These people do not laugh. They do not live. Christians – why are they always waiting to die?

They lead me to a palace. The Saxons think them unique, but I have seen such places before and I know that it was not built by them. It gives the appearance of strength, and I suppose it is a type of strength, to hold a land for centuries and preserve its treasures. But they build little of their own. These Saxons are stagnant. They have nothing new.

I am not allowed inside. Instead I must wait in the chill air until Alfred and his councillors emerge from within. They do so, pale and un-tested to a man.

And there is Uhtred. He is staring at me. He is not surprised, has surely heard of my approach, but I know well his disbelief that anyone should come for him.

Alfred speaks. "You are Ragnar Ragnarsson, son of Earl Ragnar the Fearless. I had heard you would take Guthrum's place at his death."

No doubt he hopes to impress me with his knowledge. Later I will wonder how he had come to hear it, but first I have other matters to address.

"Forgive me, lord, but it has been a long journey. I would greet my brother," I say, and then I can restrain myself no longer. I am stepping quickly towards him, a great smile upon my face, and then we are embraced. He is strong, this grown man, this slayer of Ubba and Guthrum, and I am almost knocked from my feet.

"Now you are where you belong," I say to him, repeating earlier words. Uhtred is stubborn, and it does not hurt to say these things more than once. 

"Now I am with my brother," he echoes, and releases me. "Ragnar," he says with affection. "I am happy to see you, but why are you here?"

I cannot resist grabbing him by the neck, which of course he fights, and of course I laugh; such is the privilege of the elder brother. 

"I am come to make peace with your king," I tell him. "I do not want to have to kill you on the battlefield."

Uhtred shoves me. "You could try."

I laugh, and then he is on me again, my Saxon, Dane-souled brother. "Thank you, Ragnar," he says, his arms around me; I know that his face is creased with relief, that his eyes are wet – as are mine, for suddenly the future is upon us. "Thank you," he repeats, and lets me go.

My hands remain on his shoulders; I cannot make myself let go of him. "And I am come to meet my new sister and my nephew," I tell him. "I must see this Uhtred, son of Uhtred. I must save him and teach him how to be a Dane, or he will be miserable all his life."

And that is when Uhtred's face becomes a still and silent heart-break, and I know that something terrible has happened.

-

"Grief is a living winter," Ravn said to me as we left all of our life in Denmark.

But I was young and hungry, filled with dreams of wealth and adventure. I had not yet been broken. I did not understand his words.

-

"You say you wish to negotiate a peace, Ragnar Ragnarsson. You must speak to me, now." 

I have heard it often said that this Alfred is a thinker. Guthrum said it, before Ubba was dead and after he was dead, and Guthrum had clearer sight than Stori. I know that he is trying to secure his own ends before Uhtred can speak his piece, but I will not allow it. He is a king, but I have an army and can burn Wessex to ashes, and will if given cause. 

I ask Uhtred: "What has happened to your wife and child?" 

Uhtred does not answer – for once, my brother seems incapable of speech. His hands grip my hands where they still rest upon his shoulders and his eyes burn with rage. Something stays his tongue; his honour, I suspect, or futility and fear of consequence.

It was a Saxon, then, and somebody in the king's company, if I am any judge. I am no king, but I am the son of an earl and I know a little of such feuds. Favour is fickle in such a court, these men who know no loyalty even to the ties of family, men bound only to themselves. They are ravens; they will feast on a man's bones. My brother still lives, but he is already bleeding.

The Wessex king is pale. He realises that I have understood.

I tell him: "I think you know my price for peace."

-

Justice is rare. Life has taught me this, but I tire of its lack.

We stand in the king's great hall: Uhtred and I, Alfred and his priest Beocca, and two men called Odda, who come with a man called Leofric. They did not want to let me in, but I swept them forward: "I am cold, hungry and angry, and I have an army two miles distant," I said to them. They were easy to brush aside, and they followed me within. 

Uhtred said nothing, but his eyes said everything. He has been alone among these people for too long; but now, I am here.

A woman serves me milk and bread. She is a vixen, by the look she gives me. Saxon women are such strange and placid creatures, full of piety and prayer to their god, but this one and my Brida have something of the Dane in them. They are wild; free them and they will fly.

I do not return her flirtation. Brida would skin me alive.

It is the younger Odda who has murdered Uhtred's child. I see him standing by the king's side and I need no evidence to convict such a man. His guilt is written in his speech, in his stance, in the pallor of his skin. He is a coward, but he is gifted with the skill of swift talk. He and his kind are the worst of ravens.

"He must die," I say to Alfred. "Then you shall have peace."

Alfred is silent for a while; he knows this young Odda is responsible. I do not care how long he will be silent. My terms are clear.

Uhtred continues to say nothing. It must pain him to stay so quiet. He has never possessed caution in these matters. He stands behind me, guarding my back. We will die together if the time comes.

Eventually, Alfred speaks. "Odda the Elder is my trusted councillor."

Such protests are nonsense. "And Uhtred is my most loved brother," I counter. "I think you do not understand, king Alfred. You think us heartless, and you think blood more binding than choice. You should correct yourself."

He does not like that. "I should kill you both where you stand."

"Perhaps you should." My rage is terrible. "If I do not return by nightfall, my men will leave. They will march north and rest the winter in Eoferwic. But then they will have a new leader. And then they will come back."

He does not need to be told that, in such a future, peace will not be available to him.

In the corner of the room, two of his scribes write our words onto parchment. I have heard of these scribes. The Saxons, when they are not wetting themselves at the sight of us and can bring themselves to stand and trade as men, speak often of this king and his room of scrolls. They speak as if he were a sorcerer, as if his many words have power. Perhaps they do; but he is still just a man.

"Let them write that you sent envoys," I tell him. "Let them write that you sought peace and justice."

"That would not be the truth."

"Men of the future will not know that," I say. "Tomorrow we die. I am not concerned by it."

He is like Guthrum, this Alfred; ruthless and calculating, and he will not sacrifice his kingdom for the serpent in his midst. Why should he preserve such a man? He is a king. He has much to lose.

He has made his decision; he glances at Leofric, who seizes the young Odda and draws his sword. 

"My lord –" the elder Odda begins, but a glance from Alfred silences him.

The young Odda resists, of course, and Leofric knocks him to his knees. I like this Leofric, he is a fighting man, and I like him more when he presses his blade to the young Odda's throat.

Odda's face is a riot of panic and fear and futile rage. This is the man who has harmed my brother and his family. I can hardly stand to look at him.

"I will do it," I say, and draw my sword.

Then Uhtred stands in front of me, and he begins to talk.

-

Later, I will remember the way Uhtred spoke of Odda the Elder. He spoke of a good man, an honourable man who did not waste his warriors' lives at Cynuit, who kept his word and saved my brother's life. He speaks with respect, and when I think back on this day I think that I will hate this elder Odda. My brother had a father. He does not need another, not the Saxon he was born to and not the Saxon in this room.

But:

"It is the second," Uhtred tells me. "Did Brida tell you that?"

I do not know what to think. "She did not."

Uhtred smiles, but it is not done with happiness. "I did not much care at the time. But now I know what might have been."

I understand what he is trying to tell me. For my brother, I put away my sword. "You are a better man than me."

-

So it is Alfred who deals with the young Odda, who strips him of his lands and his titles and banishes him from Wessex, but does not take his life. Leofric removes him from our presence.

The elder Odda is frail. He thanks Alfred for his mercy but shows no such gratitude to Uhtred before he follows Leofric from the room. 

"Perhaps he would prefer his son dead," I murmur to Uhtred. "It can be arranged."

Uhtred shakes his head. "He is shamed before his king and his god. I would not be grateful, either."

Alfred is watching us. He has not liked being forced into this action, likes less the love between Uhtred and I. He does not understand. I will fight Saxons and Uhtred will fight Danes, because that is the world we live in and it is our way. But it is not all that we are.

Uhtred is staring at me again, much as he used to stare at our father, who was hero and god to us both. He says, "I will be with you always, Ragnar," and I embrace him once more.

"The time is right," I tell him, and he nods – I know he understands.

I release him, and this time it is Uhtred who is unable to let go. He grips my arms and I will not easily forget the look on his face: relief, and a giant gratitude that is beyond words. This is something he does not understand. He owes me nothing. He is my brother.

"I have paid your price, Ragnar Ragnarsson," Alfred says to me now; he has a king's disregard for the intimacies of others. "I wonder, what will our peace look like?"

"We will leave Wessex," I tell him. "We will leave and we will not come back – while I am alive to lead them, at least. I cannot promise you their obedience when I am dead."

There is only a very brief pause. "Satisfactory," Alfred says.

"I am glad." I turn to Uhtred. "The day is moving quicker than I expected. I must go back to my men – will you join me? Brida is there. We will celebrate."

"I will," says Uhtred, with a blinding smile. "I know how you like to celebrate." His smile fades and his face becomes serious. "And then we will ride north to Kjartan."

"Yes," I say. "And then perhaps further north. To Bebbanburg."

Uhtred glances at Alfred before leaving to ready his horse.

I am left with Alfred and his priest. I know this Beocca – he was there when my father paid Ubba his sword's weight in silver for Uhtred's life. Uhtred has spoken of him as a good man, but I can see that he is Alfred's now. He is not an easy ally to my brother, and Uhtred gives his trust too freely.

I say to Alfred: "There are merchants among my men. Perhaps in the future we might trade."

Alfred's stare is piercing, but he does not frighten me. "A year from now," he says. "Let us see how well the peace holds."

I smile at his caution. "Very well."

The peace will hold. I am a patient man. We will return and make wealth, when the time is right.

-

And that is how we are at peace with Wessex. I return to my men before nightfall with Uhtred in tow and tell them the news. Erik claims satisfaction with both my return and the peace, but he is a violent man and now he has tasted power – I will soon have to kill him.

Brida is on Uhtred before he has even got down from his horse. He falls to the ground and lies there laughing while she jumps on him and meets his laughter with her own.

Uhtred has brought Leofric for the feasting. I like him more than ever, for he loves my brother. I see it in their unspoken words, in Leofric's hand on Uhtred's shoulder when Uhtred's eyes look back at his wife and son. He gets down from his horse to catcalls and whistles from my men, but he bears it well. He is a warrior – another Dane-souled Saxon. Perhaps there are more of them than I think.

-

We are drunk, Uhtred and I, drunk and laughing fools. He is leaning against an old oak tree, and I am leaning against him. It will soon be daybreak and still we are drinking. We will sleep where we fall. It is our way.

I lift my drink in a toast: "To vengeance."

Uhtred's laughter fades. "To justice," he says, speaking only the truth.


End file.
